bexley curtis ✰ || the outsiders

twenty - six

I didn't sleep that night.

Not because of the usual nightmares, not even because of Frank or the weight of the pistol hidden beneath the loose floorboard in my closet.

No — this time it was Sylvia.

The way she looked at me. The way Dallas froze when she whispered in his ear. The way her name alone made something dark settle in Dally's eyes — like the part of his past he never talked about had just waltzed back into the light and smiled at me.

I was tired of secrets. And if no one was gonna tell me the truth, I'd find it myself.

It started with a name.

Tim Shephard.

Soda once said if you needed dirt on someone, Tim either had it or could get it. I found him behind the old billiards joint on the east side, lighting a cigarette with one hand and holding a busted cue in the other.

He looked up at me with a smirk. "Well, well. Dally's girl."

I ignored that. "You know Sylvia?"

His smirk dropped half an inch. "That's a loaded question."

I folded my arms. "I'm asking because I think she's involved in something dangerous. Something that has to do with Erik... and Frank."

Tim didn't flinch at the last name — but his eyes darkened.

"Frankie Marcone," he muttered. "Figured his greasy fingers were in this."

My pulse stuttered. "So you do know him?"

Tim nodded slowly. "Not personally. But I know the kind of circles he runs in. Sylvia used to hang around his crew back in Tulsa. Not muscle. Smarter than that. She ran messages. Arranged meet-ups. She knew how to manipulate people — sweet-talk 'em, sleep with 'em, set 'em up. Real classy stuff."

A cold shiver crawled up my spine. "And Erik?"

Tim hesitated. Then sighed. "That's the part Dally don't know. Or maybe he does. Depends how much he's pretendin' not to."

My throat tightened. "Tell me."

"Erik owed Frank money," he said flatly. "Still does, probably. But it ain't just gambling or drugs. Frank don't care about the usual petty stuff. He deals in people."

I blinked. "What does that mean?"

Tim's eyes met mine, deadly serious. "You. He offered you up."

The world tilted sideways.

"What?"

Tim dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. "Last year, Erik told Frank he had a girl — some rich, sweet-faced girlfriend from the north side. Said she had connections. Said she could be used to send a message. Leverage. I don't know what the deal was exactly. But Frank was interested. Especially when Erik showed him a picture."

I staggered back a step, bile rising in my throat. "You're saying he sold me?"

"Not directly," Tim said. "But he opened the door. And Frank doesn't forget a name once it's in his mouth."

I thought about the first time I met Frank — the way he knew who I was. The way he watched me, like I was already his.

Tim went on, voice grim. "Sylvia was the one who shut the deal down. Told Frank it was too soon. That you were still in love with Erik, and if they played their cards right, you'd go running back to him. But now that you're not? I'd bet good money she's here to clean up the loose ends."

Everything clicked.

The stalking. The cryptic warnings. The sudden reappearance of people I thought I'd left in the rearview.